High Society
by LadyKailitha
Summary: John Watson is the son of the Master of the Society of Apothecaries & in training to be a doctor, but what he really wants is to be an army doctor. After a particularly nasty argument with his father, John runs away to do just that. On his way he runs afoul of one of the worst gangs & is rescued by street-wise rival gang leader, Shezza. AU. Everyone from the show I can fit. Really.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I know, I know. I should be working on Westminster Private Academy. And I do have the chapter done, it's just not typed up and beta'd. So, time willing, I'll have out to you soon. But this was just such a fun idea that I just had to share.**

**Also, I took Magnusson and reverted his name back to the original ACD name but with the series appearance and personality. So, we have Lord Milverton instead. This was done for plot purposes.  
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**Thanks to my beta, old ping hai. She is absolutely wonderful in helping me with these.**

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><p>John Hamish Watson, of the Glasgow Watsons, had the sudden desire to punt that ridiculous dog out the window. Well, it wasn't sudden. He had been wanting to do that for years. The toy poodle was his father Harrison's pride and joy. The dog was vicious, lame, and blind besides.<p>

It was also currently growling at him. Which was doing nothing for John's indecision. He was supposed to be in the ballroom, it was his birthday after all. But he wanted to go back upstairs and have Stamford, his valet, take off the stupid dinner jacket and replace it with John's favorite dress robe.

He had told his father he wanted a small, private affair with his friends back in Glasgow. But his father was the Master of the Society of Apothecaries in London, so it was a large, expensive party with only the top notch of London society attending.

John desperately wished his mother was still alive. She had a way of tempering the extravagances of her husband and the most outrageous behavior in her eldest, Harriet. If there was a poster child for wild nights and drunken rows, it was his older sister, Harriet. Being a woman, not being able to inherit, she was going to spend as much of the money as she could.

He hated it all. He was about to turn on his heel and go back to his room when he heard a discreet cough.

"Master John," a warm, friendly voice said.

John turned around slowly. His valet was standing there, hands tucked behind his back.

The barrel-chested young man shook his head. "You have gone and bothered with your tie again."

John's hand went to the offending article, but Stamford batted it away. He fixed the tie to perfection and John sighed.

"I don't want to go in there, Stamford," he muttered.

"And yet, you will," Stamford said with a smile.

"Why's that?"

"You father sent me for you."

"Shite!" John ran his hand over his mouth, covering another curse.

"I don't want to do this," he said, resigned.

"Do what, Master John?"

"This whole thing. I just want to join the army after becoming a doctor. Do good, instead of pandering to idiots all the time."

It was an old argument, one Stamford had heard a hundred times a day.

"And yet…" Stamford replied.

"Getting Father to agree wouldn't just be like pulling teeth, it would take a bloody miracle."

"And there you have your answer," Stamford said. He clasped John's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Then he used the squeeze to turn John around and push him at the double doors.

John sighed and opened them. He was met with the rush of sights and sounds. Men in dinner jackets, and women in their finest with jewels glittering on their necks, hair, hands, and ears. The dim light from the lamps catching their glitter and drawing John's eyes to them. Everyone was here only to see and be seen. It wasn't about John at all. A lot of _his _friends couldn't even make it.

And suddenly he felt more alone than he had standing out in the hall. The people milling about were all rich, powerful, and beautiful. All things John never felt he was. His father held all the power and all the money. While Harriet got pin money, he was told that his allowance was going toward his education. But it was just another way Mr Watson controlled his children.

"There you are!" a voice cracked out. John flinched. He felt fingers tighten around his forearm and he fought not to cry out in pain. "Johnny! Man of the hour," Harrison Watson said as someone passed by them. Once their attention was elsewhere, Mr Watson shook his son.

"I told you to be here by seven. Do you have any idea what time it is?"

John shook his head. He had no idea how long he was out there, dithering.

"It is nearly eight!" The fingers on John's arms tightened and John cried out in pain.

"Father! You're hurting me."

"I'll do whatever it takes to make you listen," Mr Watson growled.

"I'm sorry!"

"You better be." He gave John a good shake that rattled the young man's teeth. "We have a lot of people for you to meet and we don't have all god damn night."

"Yes, Father," John said bowing his head.

"These are all influential people. And I won't have you mucking things up for me. We'll have no more of this business of you liking men, so tonight you'll pick a bride out of five I've chosen and you _will _marry her. Do I make myself clear?"

John nodded meekly, feeling sick. He didn't want to marry anyone. Especially not any of the women his father had chosen.

"The first one you'll meet is Janine Hawkins. She's the ward of Lord Milverton. Her dowry is £30,000."

John's eyebrows shot up. That was quite a lot. He could see why his father had sought her out specifically. He nodded submissively.

Lord Milverton was a man of average height with a slim build and a neat goatee. His sharp eyes peered out from thin spectacles and his light brown hair was slicked back and beginning to thin. Immediately John wished he was anywhere but near this man. John thought of his Shakespeare: Milverton had "a lean and hungry look." The young woman whose waist he had a possessive hand on was pretty enough, John supposed. Her dark hair curled fetchingly about her heart-shaped face. Her skin was dusky and smooth.

"Lord Milverton, this is my son, John. John, this is Lord Milverton and his ward, Janine Hawkins," Mr Watson said.

"She's a half-breed daughter of a whore, but she'll make you a pretty wife, Mr Watson," Lord Milverton sneered.

John looked over at Janine, but her head was down and she wouldn't meet his eye.

"Her father was a business colleague of mine in Belfast. And after his wife ran out on him, he became a drunk. But before he died, he left his finances to me and I made his daughter very wealthy indeed."

"Sounds like she owes you a great deal," John said.

"Yes."

"And how do you like London so far, Miss Hawkins?" John asked.

"Very well, it's much better than Ireland," she said, her eyes still cast down.

"Of course it is," Lord Milverton agreed. "London is vastly superior to Ireland."

"Yes, my Lord," she said meekly.

John stood there feeling uncomfortable for young woman. Her situation didn't seem too far from his own. But there was nothing he could do for her, because he was as powerless as she was.

Mr Watson nodded to the Lord and they made their excuses, leaving that poor girl alone with that monster.

The next young woman they met was an American. She was of mixed blood, like Janine, only it was clear what her parentage was, even without them standing behind her like sentinels. She had her father's dark, wiry hair, large lips, and broad nose, but due to her mother's milky skin, Miss Donovan's skin was more like chocolate than the coffee color of her father.

"Anton!" Mr Watson greeted.

"Harrison," the warm, thickly accented voice said. "It is good to see you again, old friend."

"And you. Your wife and daughter are looking lovely this evening."

"Ah yes," Mr Donovan said. "This is my wife, Margo, and my daughter, Sarina."

The daughter shook John's hand and said, "It's Sally. Nice to meet you."

"Miss Donovan, it's a pleasure to meet you."

"This is my son, John," Mr Watson said finishing the introductions.

"So, what is you do, Mr Donovan?" John asked once he managed to reclaim his hand back from the daughter.

"I'm what is called in the States, a rail baron."

"A 'rail baron'? So, you own a railroad line then?"

"I own three," Mr Donovan said with a warm chuckle.

John's eyebrows shot up.

"Such filthy things," Mrs Donovan said with a sniff.

"I love them!" Sally said.

"I took a train from Glasgow to London, I quite enjoyed the experience. Are you hoping to get in on a speculation here in London, Mr Donovan?" John asked, and the daughter looked put out that John was more interested in her father than he was in her.

"Yes, yes," Mr Donovan said, and went on to explain his plans in England. While John was listening he winked at Sally and she blushed.

Soon they made their excuses and left.

"She certainly is an active sort," John said hesitantly.

"Yes. If Mr Donovan's speculation pans out, she'll be a very wealthy woman as well," Mr Watson said.

John nodded.

"How many more do we have to see tonight?" John asked, taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant.

"Three more."

John coughed and spat up some of the champagne he had been drinking. "So many."

"Yes. One is the niece of a widowed silk maker, Mistress Shan. Soo Lin Yao is very beautiful, I'm told. The other two are wealthy, independent women of eighteen and twenty respectively. Mary Morstan, the younger of the two, is an orphan who just came into her inheritance, and Sarah Sawyer's father recently passed, leaving her with quite the estate."

"Lead on," John said with resignation. "Lead on."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: And here is part two of the first chapter that got away from me and had to be split in half. And then chapter three kinda wrote itself and I'm in the process of typing it up, so if all goes well today, you'll be getting another chapter very soon.**

**Thanks to the lovely, wonderful, awesome old ping hai.**

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><p>The first one Mr Watson took John to see was Sarah Sawyer. She was a pretty, petite woman with light brown hair and blue eyes.<p>

"Miss Sawyer, may I present my son, John?"

"How do you do, Mr Watson, Mr John?" Her eyes never left their faces as she curtsied. She did not look away, but she wasn't brash and upfront the way Sally had been.

John was surprised. He wasn't expecting someone so quietly put together. "Miss Sawyer," he greeted. "I was sorry to hear about your father. He was a doctor, I believe."

"Yes. Thank you. His loss came as great shock to me. My mother had been in failing health for some time when she passed only a year ago, but my father seemed to be in good spirits before going away to meet with some Oxford friends. He passed quietly in his sleep. Or so I'm told."

"You have my deepest sympathies, Miss Sawyer. To lose both your parents so close to each other must be horrible to bear."

"I'm taking their loss hard, but I will soldier on. It's what they would have wanted of me," she said.

"You do them credit I'm sure," John returned.

"You are too kind."

"That is an awful lot of money he left you, Miss Sawyer," Mr Watson said, tired of the condolences.

"Indeed. But my father's dear friend, Mr Joseph Bell, has lent me the service of his accountant and I'm practically making money in my sleep. I've even put money into Mr Donovan's speculation. I think it will do well."

Mr Watson blinked. "You have a good head on your shoulders, Miss Sawyer. Any man who chooses you will never have worry where his money is going."

Her laughter was clear and bright as a bell. "I would certainly hope so." She turned to John. "And are you a doctor as well?"

"Almost. I have one year left of study," he said with a short bow.

"All his teachers are pleased with him," Mr Watson said, clapping him roughly on the back.

"Smart and good looking, is there anything else you can do, Mr John?" she asked with a grin.

"I play rugby and I can warble a tune or two," John said, returning her grin with a small smile of his own.

"'Warble a tune,' indeed," Mr Watson scoffed. "He's a fantastic singer. Got it from his mother. Now, me on the other hand, I send the dogs running for the hills."

This brought out another laugh from Sarah and it was soon after they made their excuses.

"So what did you think of that one, Johnny?" Mr Watson said, as he scanned the room for his next mark.

"Not likely to be induced to matrimony any time soon," John said with a scowl. It was highly inappropriate that his father would even suggest her. Yes, she was a rich orphan, but one still deeply in mourning for both her parents. Give her a year, maybe less. But not much less, then she might be persuaded. Right now, however, she was content to enjoy her fortune and freedom.

"Pity. Well, that's one off our list. I guess my source was wrong. I was sure she was looking for a match. Maybe she found another way to get out from under her vexing relations."

_Lucky, girl_, John thought viciously.

The second to the last was Madame Shan and her niece, Soo Lin Yao. Mr Watson spotted them in the crowd and dragged an unwilling John with him.

"Madame Shan, it is a pleasure to see you," Mr Watson said, bowing low. He made introductions and everyone said their 'how-do-you-do's'. The women were both in traditional Chinese dress, Madame Shan in blood red, Soo Lin in pale green.

"You ladies look lovely this evening," John said.

Madame Shan gripped Soo Lin's arm. Her long, red nails dug into the poor girl's flesh. Soo Lin didn't even wince.

"So kind. She is very pretty, wouldn't you agree, Mr John?" Madame Shan said in a lilting Chinese accent.

"Yes," John agreed. He fought to not look away. To the floor, the side, anywhere but the scene in front of him. But it would be worse for the young woman if he did. And likely himself as well.

"Such a pretty girl. Make such a pretty bride, yes?" she pressed.

"If you'll excuse me," John muttered before turning on his heel. He made it to a potted plant before he vomited.

When his father found him, he had slumped to the floor as people milled around him, not even noticing that the guest of honor had just finished puking in the hydrangeas.

"What the hell was that about?" Mr Watson hissed.

"God, how old is she?" John asked. "Fifteen, sixteen? Can she even speak English?"

His father glared at him. "What difference does her age make? Or if she can talk? It's not as though you are going to be doing much talking with her," he spat.

"I will not marry someone like that. On that you can depend," John said firmly, even though he knew that it would cost him later. When they were alone.

Mr Watson hauled him to his feet. "You have one more girl to meet and then you will pick one. Do I make myself clear? I don't care why you don't want to marry one or more of them as long as you pick one of them. Or I will pick for you."

John nodded.

They went in search of the final prospect. Miss Mary Morstan. They finally found her tucked away in some corner, clutching her drink.

"Miss Morstan," John said brightly. She was beautiful. Her soft blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her bright blue eyes sparkled, a dusting of pink on her cheeks as she murmured her hellos.

She didn't say much, but he got the gist that her father had abandoned her years ago to join the army and was never seen or heard from again. What he did do, however, was leave behind a large fortune for her to inherit once she reached eighteen. John had no doubt that she was about to be victim to fortune hunters like his father. He felt sorry for her. But he didn't want to marry her. He didn't want to marry any of them.

His father pulled him aside when the strain of stilted conversation grew to be too much for Mr Watson's patience.

"Which one, John?" he growled impatiently.

"Um…uh…" John hedged.

"Which. One."

"The third one. Miss Sawyer," John heard himself say. _That way, I can keep putting off the wedding_, he thought.

"Good. You'll announce it after the toast."

John nodded.

He was allowed to mingle and eat after that. Far too soon it was time for his father to toast John and his accomplishments.

His father droned on and on about this and that, but mostly about himself. Finally he let John take the stand.

"Thank you all for coming here to celebrate my twenty-first birthday. Um…." He looked out over all the people his father had invited. He saw not a single face among them that was there for him. He glanced at his father and despite the sick feeling of dread, he said. "I hope you thoroughly enjoyed yourselves. Again, thank you and good night."

He strolled out of the ballroom as through hell was fast on his heels. Because he knew it was. He made it as far the bottom of the stairs when his father caught up with him.

"What the hell was that?" the older man bellowed.

"I couldn't. I couldn't do it. I tried. I just. Can't," John wailed.

"You'll go back in there and announce you are marrying Sarah Sawyer. Do you hear me?"

John shook his head. Mr Watson grabbed the lapels of John's jacket and drew him up so they were inches from each other.

"You will do as you're told!" Mr Watson said and, pushed John onto the stairs. John raised his arms to catch himself and in flailing, struck his father. Mr Watson roared and began hitting his son, over and over.

Finally the older man was out of breath and he stood up. "Clean up. I don't want to see you again until you've changed your mind."

He strolled off, fixing his clothes and straightening his hair.

John limped up to his rooms, where a sympathetic Stamford was waiting for him.

"It's bad this time, Master John," Stamford said, as he tended to John's bruises.

"I can't stay here anymore, Stamford. What do I do?" he wailed into his pillow.

"Leave, run away. Anything is better than this," Stamford pleaded.

"Where would I go?"

"The army," Stamford suggested. "It's what you wanted, anyway."

"But how?"

Stamford smiled. "I have a plan."


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: How's that for fast? I told you the next chapter was nearly done. So here it is, I hope you enjoy it.**

**Plus, I have the best beta in the world. She's fantastic, amazing, awesome, incredible, and all those other adjectives that John uses to describe Sherlock, because she is all those and more.**

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><p>John and Stamford worked out that they had a few days before Mr Watson's patience wore out and he demanded to see his son.<p>

The first thing they did was have John refuse to see anyone or take any food. After a couple days, people gave up trying to come in. They'd leave food in front of his door and walk away. John would leave it untouched and Stamford would sneak food into him at night. On the third night, John snuck out of his window wearing borrowed clothes from one of the other servants.

Hat firmly placed low on his brow to cover his face and a small satchel of food and whatever money Stamford had managed to scrape up, he crept out of the grounds and out to the street. He looked around briefly before he took off in search of the army enlistment post.

He was so concerned about avoiding his father's detection that he didn't keep an eye on his surroundings. It came as quite the shock when he ran into a man built like an ox. He stumbled back and the apology died on his lips. He looked up and kept looking up. The man was tall and scars riddled the brute's face and hands. Peeking from his collar was a tiger that looked as through it was trying to claw its way out. He had piercing brown eyes and blond hair, cut raggedly and sticking up in places.

John look a hasty step back.

"Well, lookie here," the behemoth crowed. "Oi, boss, come see what I've got."

John turned to run but the beast grabbed his arm and held in him in place. John looked behind the man gripping him tightly and saw a figure dressed all in black. His dark hair was slicked back and the single eye John could see in his profile was a dark brown, almost black. He was leaning up against a nearby building, smoking. He flicked away his cigarette and stood up, revealing him to be not much taller than John. But John was more frightened of this man than he was of the blond giant.

The other man strolled up to where John and the behemoth were standing. "Mmm…you're right, Sebby. He does look delicious." His voice was a rough Irish brogue that made John wince. He touched John's chin and brought his face up to the grim light of the lamp. "Better off than he looks. He'll do perfectly."

"I thought you'd like it," Sebby said with a grin. The boss tilted his head and breathed in.

"Oh, boys," he called and two other men came out of the shadows.

Seeing them John began to struggle, but he got cuffed by Sebby for his troubles. His head rocked back and for a moment, his eyes went dark. When he could see again, he could clearly make out the men. One was an older fellow, about John's father's age, frumpy and diminished in a way John couldn't describe. The other was a only a little taller than the boss but had the same dark hair and eyes. Only he didn't have the same level of vileness as the snake in front of John. If this man was a sea of darkness, his boss was the ocean.

"Sebastian always finds the best playthings," the frumpy one said.

"Yes, he does," the small dark one agreed.

"It was almost as good as that whore he brought me last time," the boss said. "Hope, take his satchel."

The frumpy one came up, grabbed John's small bag and began rifling through it.

"Ooh, lookie, boss. We've got some good bread and cheese and well as a few coins," Hope said with a crooked grin.

"Let's have some fun, Small, Sebby!" the boss smirked. The two smaller men fell on to John, knocking him to the ground. John struggled to get away but Sebastian held him tight. So tightly John cried out in pain.

They began tugging at his clothes. Sebastian acquired his hat. They removed his jacket and when they made to pull off his trousers, John started to scream. The boss suddenly jerked backward and Small turned around to help the other man, but he paused. He stood up slowly, his hands in the air.

No longer feeling the pressure on his arms, John wrenched away and scooted back. Now he could clearly see why the three men had stopped and why the fourth hadn't called the alarm. A soft, round-faced man had a dagger pressed to Hope's throat. John's satchel was at his feet, the bread and coins scattered among the cobblestone.

Sebastian had an equally frightening man behind him, a revolver pressed tightly to the back of the behemoth's skull. A wiry-looking kid was expertly pointing a pistol at Small. Off to the side was a shy girl, worrying a handkerchief as she watched the unfolding drama with trepidation.

But the one who caught John's attention was the man holding holding the slick gentleman by the collar. He was tall, not as tall as Sebastian and the man holding a gun to Sebastian's head, but taller than the rest. His dark hair curled fetchingly around his narrow face. His piercing blue eyes were trained on the slick gentleman.

"Shezza," the boss purred. "Come to join in on the fun?"

"No, Jim," the curly-haired man said. His voice sending shivers down John's spine. "I warned you what would happen if you stepped into my territory again."

Jim pulled himself from Shezza's grasp and straightened his suit. "Your little Baker Street Irregulars? Don't make me laugh. The Spiders go where they please. They don't answer to anyone, but me."

Shezza rolled his eyes. "Wiggins, shoot Small." The wiry-looking fellow fired a shot into the other man's knee.

Small fell, screaming and clutching his leg. Jim's eyes snapped to his fallen crony.

"You'll regret that, Shezza," Jim promised. He motioned to Hope and Sebastian to pick up the young man, and Shezza's men allowed them to do so.

"Where to, boss?" Sebastian asked.

"Dr Franklin's." His eyes narrowed on the dark-haired man being lifted by his comrades. "This time."

Once the three had gone, Jim got up in Shezza's face. As close as he could without touching the other man. "You win this time, my dear." He closed his eyes and rolled his head. "But, I won't forget this."

"You never do," Shezza said.

Jim grinned and strolled off. "Catch you later," he called with a wave of his hand.

"No, you won't," Shezza shouted after him. He rolled his eyes and then rushed to John's side.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

John looked up to see those amazing blue eyes and had to remember to breathe.

"I-I think so," John said. Shezza helped John stand.

"He wasn't going to sodomize you."

John rocked his head back. "Excuse me?"

"He wasn't going to sodomize you," Shezza repeated. "You started screaming when he reached for your trousers. You thought he was going to sodomize you."

"Oh. Yes. So, what was he going to do then?"

"He was going to strip you, beat you, and leave you for dead in my territory so I that I would take the blame."

"Why would-" John began to ask as he took a step away from Shezza before the man's proximity caused heart palpitations, but as he took that step, his ankle buckled under his weight.

"Ah!" He cried out, and Shezza grabbed him to hold him up.

"I thought you said you were all right," Shezza accused.

"I must have twisted my ankle when they attacked me. I didn't notice until I put pressure on it."

"We'll have to take you back to our hideout to get it fixed."

John shook his head in regret. "I don't think I can walk five steps, let alone the requisite amount to get to your hideout."

Shezza rolled his eyes and scooped John up in his arms bridal style. John wrapped his arms Shezza's neck instinctively. "Then I'll just have to carry you myself."

The shy girl came up to them and still twisting her handkerchief said, "But, Shezza…we don't know him. What if he's a copper?"

The dark-haired man looked down at John, "Are you a copper?"

"A what now?" John asked, and then it dawned on him. "Oh! A policeman! No, of course not. I'm doctor. Or at least one in training."

"There you have it, Molly. He's a doctor."

She stepped back fluttering nervously.

"Let's hurry, Moriarty might have sent for the coppers anyway. And that's trouble I'd rather avoid."

"Shinwell, take Molly back to the hideout. Let them know we have company and that we might have company of the police persuasion."

The large man with the revolver nodded and grabbed Molly by the wrist as he passed. They left, Molly glancing behind before rushing away.

"Toby," Shezza said, turning to the remaining man John didn't know. "Make sure Moriarty and his men didn't leave any surprises in our territory. We can't take any chances."

Toby nodded and went the opposite direction from Molly and Shinwell.

Wiggins looked up at the pair of them with the largest grin on his face.

Shezza frowned. "What?"

"Aren't your arms getting tired?" Wiggins asked, indicating them both with his chin.

John and Shezza shared a glance. The dark-haired man had been holding the blond the whole time he had been talking to his gang.

"You're very strong," John commented in awe.

Shezza blushed.

"Come on, Wiggins," the gang leader said. "You'll need to be on the lookout for any Spiders. I wouldn't put it past them to ambush us."

Wiggins just grinned some more and followed his boss as they made their way to the hideout.

**A/N: Hi it's me again. Just a little note, in case people are thinking Sherlock wouldn't order one of his men to shoot out the knee cap of someone else, may I remind you this is the same person who tortured a dying man to get a name out of him. So trust me, pre-John Sherlock would sooo do this. **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Hi, there. Yes another chapter. But this is the last one for a bit. I've been working on my story, which needs a little more love.**

**Thanks to my awesome, amazing, fantastic beta, old ping hai.**

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><p>John's heart was beating double time as Shezza and Wiggins wove their way through London's streets.<p>

They finally came to a worn-down brownstone. Wiggins walked up to the door and did a jaunty little knock. The door swung open to reveal a dark-skinned man about John's age, his dark eyes serious.

"Picked up another foundling I see," he said, as he opened the door wider to allow them access to the building.

"You make it sound like I bring home a new one every week," Shezza groused.

"And you don't?" Wiggins asked, as he followed his leader and his burden into the house.

"Once a month maybe," Shezza admitted with a grin. Wiggins and the dark-skinned man shared a glance of surprise.

"Where are you taking the package?" Wiggins asked, indicating John with his chin.

"My room. Victor, grab the medical kit and meet us there," Shezza said.

The dark-skinned man nodded and went one direction while Wiggins went another.

"Why isn't Shinwell the doorman?" John asked.

"Of the two dark-skinned men trusted enough for the task, Victor is less likely to get into trouble. He can pretend not to understand English and begin speaking Hindi; it deters all but the most determined copper."

"Clever. And is he a trained doctor? I know Jim had one. He had Small taken to a Dr Franklin. Is Victor yours?"

"I wish. No, Victor is the closest we get, a tailor."

"Oh, so he can patch up all but the worst of wounds?"

"Yes." The clipped way he said it implied that Victor's inexperience had led to the death of at least one member of their group.

Shezza took John up the stairs and through a small kitchen to a quiet, clean room off to the side. It was sparsely decorated and had a large bed in the middle. It was to this bed that John was taken and gently laid down.

Just as Shezza was getting John situated, Victor came in with a small black bag.

"Victor, this is John," Shezza said. "He ran afoul of Moriarty's gang tonight. You'll need to check more than just his ankle."

"Hello, John," Victor said, his smile bright. "Let's take a look at that ankle first, shall we?"

John nodded. "I can tell it's not broken. I'd be screaming if it was."

"Broken a lot of bones, then?" the former tailor asked as he pushed up the leg to John's trousers, revealing the swollen appendage.

"A few," John admitted. "But I'm also in training to be a doctor. A lot of the elderly elite tend to break bones on a fairly regular basis."

"So how did a posh thing like you get into trouble with the Spiders?" Victor asked, as he felt around the ankle.

"I was on my way to the army recruitment post."

"In the middle of the night?" Shezza asked incredulously.

John just shook his head.

"Well you aren't going anywhere anytime soon," the former tailor said. "It's not broken, like you said, but it is sprained. Looks like you're stuck with us for a bit." He wrapped up John's ankle with a bit of instruction from John to do it better.

"I really should get going," John protested.

"The army is unlikely to take you with your ankle as it is, John," Shezza reminded him. "I'll tell you what, why don't you give Victor a crash course in emergency care while you're here. That way you can be useful and not feel you are taking advantage of us."

Victor and John shared a glance. Victor's hopeful, John's surprised.

"Yes, of course. I'd be happy to," John said.

"I'll let the others know," Shezza said and then turned to leave.

Once the gang leader was gone, Victor turned back to his patient. "Would you remove your shirt, please?"

John nodded, grateful Shezza wasn't here for this part. It was bad enough that a stranger was going to see what John's father had done, but he didn't think he could face the gang leader if he found out how weak John was.

He slowly unbuttoned his shirt with trembling hands, revealing the once purple bruises now a sickly yellow. He shrugged out of it to show the damage Sebastian had done. The dark bruises of the man's large hands around his upper arms.

"Where did you get those?" Victor asked pointing to the older bruises. "You run afoul of another gang?"

"Ah, no. My father," John choked out. He cast his eyes down in shame.

"So that's why you were running away."

John blushed.

"Nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone here is running away from something. Demons chase us all, some are just more tangible than others." Victor patted him on the knee, and he too made his exit.

Molly came in some time later with a small bowl and a cup of water. She slammed them both on the side table and shot him a glare that could curdle milk.

"We don't need you," she hissed. "You leave us alone." She stormed off before he could ask for an explanation.

Over the next few days, Shezza helped John get around and would tell him stories about the gang and their exploits. The gang leader really came alive around the blond man. Even when John was tutoring Victor in medicine, Shezza would be there, soaking up the information as much as the Indian.

John learned about some of the gang members' histories. Never the ones he was really interested in. Wiggins would wink and change the subject, Molly avoided him all together, and Shezza, well, the gang leader's history wasn't known to anyone and he kept all that close to the vest.

* * *

><p>Molly found out John's past by eavesdropping on Shezza and him when they would talk for hours. She was told that this interloper would be gone in a few days, when his ankle healed, but she felt she had to get rid of him before he further corrupted their leader.<p>

She snuck out one night and went to a small brick wall that surrounded an abandoned butchery. It was where she and her lover would exchange love letters and arrange meetings. She liked Jim. She wanted Sherlock, of course, but Jim made her feel good. Molly didn't believe all those nasty things her friends said about him. They were just jealous of his intelligence, cunning and good looks. John must have provoked Jim to make her lover attack him.

She left her little note, telling Jim who John really was and that someone might want him back.

* * *

><p>Molly stared in shock as coppers raided her home. They were pulling out her friends and saying something about kidnapping John. This wasn't supposed to happen. John's father was supposed to show up and haul him home. Coppers weren't supposed to be involved.<p>

John had been shoved into a carriage and kept out of sight.

She looked across the street and saw Jim receiving a small money pouch from a man who bore a striking resemblance to John, who must have been his father. Jim looked like the cat caught in the cream.

He spotted her and shook hands with the other man, bidding him goodbye. He strolled across the street, hands in his jacket pocket. He came up to her and then leaned over to say into her ear, loud enough that the nearby members of her gang could hear, "Thank you for the tip, Molly. Not only did I get rid of those pesky Baker Street Irregulars, but I got quite the hefty payout. Couldn't have done it without you, love. Drop me a note when you want to meet up again. You are a fairly good fuck."

He smiled at her and sauntered off to the shouts of "Traitor!" at Molly. She broke into tears and ran away.

Shezza was the last one to be placed into the police wagon. As he was being bullied into the vehicle, a voice cracked out, "Stop!"

The police and remaining neighbors turned see a tall, well-dressed man in a top hat, cape, and with an umbrella draped over his arm.

"I will be taking that one with me, if you please," the man said.

"Well, I don't please," the constable said with a sneer. "On whose orders, then?"

"Mine, of course," the man said slowly as if he was talking to a small child.

The constable scoffed. "Yeah? And who are you then?"

"Mycroft Holmes, civil servant and ambassador for Her Royal Majesty the Queen."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: This is the last we will be seeing John for at least a chapter, maybe two. But don't worry we'll get back to him soon. :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Yay! Another chapter! And one I don't have feel guilty about putting up because Westminster Private Academy has it's long awaited chapter up. But it might be a bit before another chapter comes out, as we are nearing Christmas and I need to write the next chapters for both stories. So, apologies in advance.**

**Also my beta is the most awesome person on the planet. She really does make these stories better.**

**And if I had chapter titles this one would be called "Awesome Mycroft For the Win," but I don't, so it isn't. ;)**

**And lastly, I can't take credit for the last line, that belongs to my awesome husband, sidheman.**

* * *

><p>The constable raised his eyebrows in shock and stepped away from the gang leader, his hands in the air.<p>

"Thank you," Mycroft said with a small, pained smile. He turned to the tall, dark-haired man, still in shackles. "You are the one they call Shezza, correct?"

The constable scoffed. "That's him alright."

Mycroft turned his icy gaze to the man. "And you are?"

"Constable Dimmock, sir," he said, puffing his chest out in pride.

"Constable Dimmock, would you please release the whole lot of them," Mycroft said, pointing at the full wagons with his umbrella.

"What?" Dimmock asked. "All of them? But-"

"I know what the charges are. Kidnapping. But really, has this gang ever kidnapped anyone before?"

"Well, no…" Dimmock admitted with a sidelong glance at Shezza.

"And was there any ransom demand?" Mycroft asked, idly twirling his umbrella.

"Not that we're aware of…"

"Then you have nothing to hold them on. And really, arresting the whole gang for kidnapping? Ridiculous. Your department has been played. Badly at that."

Dimmock began releasing the gang members, starting with Shezza.

Once he was released, the gang leader rubbed his wrists and narrowed his eyes at the civil servant.

"What did you do that for?" he asked.

"Several reasons," Mycroft said with a smirk. "One, as that lovely little scene with one of your young ladies clearly showed, this is a ploy by the Spiders to get rid of your gang for good. Some of your members may have been released, but with its leaders in jail, the Baker Street Irregulars would have fallen apart. Leaving the Spiders to take over your territory. Which we both know would come to far more bad than good.

"Two, obviously Mr John Watson wasn't kidnapped, which means he ran away. Evidently, from his father, and I detest bullies. I aim to show Mr Watson that he is not the most powerful man in London. I am. And he best start taking notice.

"And lastly, while I could force you to come with me, I was hoping that releasing your gang will buy a little good will. Enough, perhaps, for you to come with me willingly."

"To where?" Shezza asked, suspicious.

"My home. We have many things we need to discuss."

"How long will that take?" Shezza inquired.

"That depends entirely on you. It could take mere hours or my hope is, for as long as possible," Mycroft replied.

"But what about them?" he asked pointing to his gang, most of whom had been released.

"You could do anything with them really. However, what I suggest is that you appoint one leader in your stead. You can communicate with them through various means, though I recommend using Miss Hooper's method. Drop points all over the city. And if they were smart, they would vary the times and the people who check the drop points. Is that sufficient for you?"

Shezza blinked and then nodded. He went to where the gang had milled around, waiting to see what the posh man wanted with their boss. There was some arguing and much waving of the arms, before Shezza stormed back to where Mycroft stood by, patiently waiting.

"I will go with you, but on one condition," the gang leader said.

"Oh? And what's that?" Mycroft inquired with the delicate raise of an eyebrow.

"That you teach me how to be like you," Shezza said.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows, "Like me? In what way?"

"Posh," was the abrupt response.

That surprised a chuckle out of the civil servant. "That could be arranged, yes."

Shezza opened his mouth to argue his point and then promptly shut it when he realized that other man had agreed. "Good. Let's go then." He crossed his arms and pouted, disappointed that he didn't have to fight for his one requirement.

"Indeed."

Shezza looked around at the opulent manor in awe. He had never seen anything so magnificent in his life.

* * *

><p>"You actually live here?" he asked, as the older man led the way into the main hall.<p>

"Yes, having become the master of the house at such a young age certainly has its advantages."

"I'll say," the gang leader whistled.

"I've had my valet draw up a bath for you and he will teach you how to properly put on your new vestments." Shezza nodded. "My housekeeper, Mrs Hudson, will show you to your rooms this time. Afterwards, you will have a maid assigned to you; to make your bed, draw your bath, and clean your rooms. You will be civil, I do not take kindly to guests mistreating my servants."

Shezza nodded vigorously and then moved to follow the sweet-looking older woman. When he reached the door, he turned back to Mycroft. "Thank you. For everything."

Mycroft merely smiled and Shezza followed Mrs Hudson through corridors and past so many doors leading to God knows where that Shezza wondered if he'd ever be able to find his way around on his own.

"The master's rooms are just two doors down," she said once they reached his room. "Anna will be your maid. When you are ready to meet with Mr Holmes, ring the bell and she will come and direct you to him. Now go on in, dear, Mr Lestrade is waiting for you."

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome, dearie."

Shezza opened the door to the room and gasped. Though it was sparsely decorated, it was the picture of luxury. It had a large four-poster bed, soft rugs, and matching drawers and table. He immediately wanted to jump on the bed, but he was saved from embarrassing himself by the valet coming out of a side room.

"Master Shezza?" the board-shouldered, grey-haired man asked.

"Yep," the gang leader said, popping his 'P'.

"If you'll follow me, sir," the man said as he turned around to go back the way he'd came. Shezza was quick on his heels and stopped at the door. In the center of the small room was a large copper tub and a small table.

Shezza began to strip without prompting from the stoic valet. He lowered himself slowly into the steaming water with a contented sigh.

Lestrade gathered up his things and pointed out the soap to the gang leader.

"I'll be back in a few minutes with to wash your hair," he said on his way out to the bedroom.

Shezza murmured some kind of response, but the valet didn't think he had actually been heard. Lestrade shook his head and went to burn the nasty things the young man had been wearing. He came back as promised and began washing Shezza's hair.

The young man started from his haze when the valet dumped a bucket of cold water on his head.

"What the hell!" Shezza protested.

"The hair is better washed in cold water, sir," Lestrade said, barely able to hide his smile.

Shezza thought about objecting again, then decided against it. Right now, he was the one in the weak position. After all, the valet could complain to Mr Holmes that Shezza had mistreated him and he'd be in trouble. Considering that he needed Mr Holmes, it was best to keep his mouth shut until he got what he wanted.

So he meekly submitted to a shave and hair cut. As well as to the many corrections the valet made when he dressed Shezza for evening drinks. He then rang the bell, and his maid, Anna appeared within moments. She was a red-head with freckles over her face and what Shezza could see of her arms. She appeared to be a slight figure, but he could she the fire in her eyes. There would be no messing with this one.

Shezza followed her back through the maze of corridors until they reached the smoking room.

"Mr Holmes will see you now," she said, her Scottish brogue falling softly on his ears.

Shezza thanked her and went inside, where Mycroft was seated, having a scotch.

"Ah, the clothes fit nicely, I see. I couldn't be sure. After all, I only saw you the once before and from a great distance," Mycroft said and indicated that Shezza should sit. The gang leader sat down gingerly, trying hard not to muss his new clothing.

The elder man chuckled. "You can sit however you like. I'll teach you how to sit properly later. I don't expect mastery from a rank amateur."

Shezza blushed, but settled back into the chair and made himself comfortable. Mycroft smiled.

"I wonder why you agreed to my condition so quickly," the gang leader said after a moment of sizing each other up.

"Because it matches my plans exactly," Mycroft said with a chuckle.

Shezza raised an eyebrow.

"There is something going on in court, loyalties changing on a whim and that makes for unstable ground. Which I will not tolerate. So, I need an extra pair of eyes. Someone younger, free to go about anywhere."

"And you chose me? Why?"

"A couple of reasons-"

Shezza chuckled. "I'm beginning to think you never do anything for just one reason."

Mycroft merely smiled before he continued. "One, you are undoubtedly a clever man. Especially to have to risen to the leader of a gang of at least twenty members at such a young age. How old are you? Eighteen?"

"About that, I don't know for sure," Shezza admitted.

"Two," Mycroft continued, "with your gang, you can send people in to talk to servants. Servants hear all the latest gossip from their masters about everyone. But they won't talk to someone like me. Or you, once we've gentrified you."

"So, what? I'm the perfect spy?"

"Something like that, yes."

"There's more, isn't there? What's the final reason?" Shezza asked.

Mycroft's face took on a sadness that Shezza couldn't name. The civil servant pulled open a drawer and took something out of it. He stood up and handed it to the younger man.

Shezza took it to find out it was a miniature portrait of a young boy of seven. "The resemblance is uncanny!"

"That is my brother, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "And that is who you will become."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Hello my darlings. I know I said it would be awhile before the next one came out, but with me deciding to shelve my other story until I can get back into the proper head space about it, it makes it easier to post this. That's not to say I'm giving up on Westminster Private Academy, it just means I'm putting it on hold. I've done this before with other stories and went back to them.**

**So, here's a little early Christmas present in the form of a new chapter.**

**Thanks to my beta who helped me untangle a giant knot I had accidentally tied myself into. I am truly grateful to her for all the hard work she does for me and more stories.**

* * *

><p>Shezza looked up at the civil servant in confusion. "Become him? What do you mean?"<p>

Mycroft sighed and moved to sit back down. "It's better if I start from the beginning."

The gang leader nodded.

"Ten years ago," Mycroft said after a moment, "my brother and our mother were out riding in the carriage when they were attacked by ruffians. We believe the driver was in on it, but he had vanished with the thugs. They ransacked the carriage and murdered my mother. It is thought that my brother shared a similar fate."

"But? You said 'thought', meaning you don't know?"

"No. His body was never found. There was a blood trail leading away into an alley. It was my father's fondest hope that Sherlock had managed to get away and survive. My father spent his every waking moment trying to search for his youngest son. I was fifteen at the time.

"After I graduated from university, I came home to manage the estate. The years of uncertainty about my brother's survival had drained the life out of my father and he died not long after I came home."

"And you think I'm him?" Shezza asked.

Mycroft shrugged. "You could be, and that's good enough for my purposes. You're the right age and coloring. As you said, the resemblance is uncanny. I will teach you as much as I can about my brother's childhood, in case you are asked. I have an eidetic memory, which means I can remember everything I have seen or heard. But that limits it to things I was there to witness. For everything else, you'll have to claim amnesia."

"That shouldn't be too hard. And an eidetic memory, huh? Wow. Can you teach me how to do that?"

"Sadly not. But I can teach you a technique that will help you with remembering things. While I was at university we studied something called the method of loci. It involves taking a memory and attaching it to a hall or room in a building or set of buildings, allowing you to recall anything you place in it, simply by going to that room in your mind."

"A mind palace?"

"Of a sort, yes."

"Wow, if you can teach me that, I won't need an eidetic memory."

"I will add that to your list of lessons. I'm afraid we don't have much time. The most I can give you is six weeks. There are things, bad things stirring underfoot, things that need to be stopped. I need someone I can trust."

"Don't you have a secret service for this sort of thing?" Shezza asked.

"They can't be trusted. They all spy on people for money," Mycroft said with a small smirk.

"Six weeks?" Shezza asked. "What about John Watson? He might not have six weeks, not if what you say about his father is true."

"Then I guess you will have to learn faster."

Shezza nodded, resolute.

* * *

><p>Shezza's day was filled with studies of all kinds. After breakfast he was sent to Mycroft's valet, Lestrade. He taught the gang leader how to stand, how to walk, how to dress. What to wear to a garden party as opposed to an evening soiree.<p>

They were having their one of these sessions when they got into an argument over the gang leader's posture.

"Stand up straight. Straighter!" the valet admonished for what he felt had to be the hundredth time that morning.

Finally Shezza had enough and barked back, "I am standing straight. As straight as I can!"

"Like hell you are, boy!" Lestrade sniped back.

"Prove it," the young man said cooly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"If I do, would you stop fighting me on every little thing and actually learn this?" Lestrade asked, mirroring the boy's pose.

"Done," Shezza said, and stuck out his hand. "We have a bargain."

Lestrade shook it and with a grin left the sitting room they were using for practice. He came back with a small stool and then picked up one of the books on the reading table. He set the stool next to Shezza and stepped up on it. Carefully he put the book on the gang leader's head, and it promptly fell off.

"That doesn't prove anything!" Shezza complained.

Lestrade just smiled and got down from the from the stool. And then he placed the book on his head. It didn't even wobble.

"You must have a flat head or something."

"You can check if you like," Lestrade said.

Shezza looked at him a moment and then said, "I'll have to take your word for it. So what's the reasoning behind it then?"

"The straighter the posture, the more balanced the book is. So it doesn't fall."

Shezza blinked and then nodded. Learned to both love and hate that book as Lestrade used it to teach him not only to stand properly, but walk as well. Sitting and drinking tea was also done with the cursed thing on his head, but he learned quickly and well.

His next lesson after Lestrade grilled him all morning was lunch with Mrs Hudson. Or as Shezza liked to call it, "taking the joy out of eating." She taught him which utensil to use and when. Which glass was the water glass and which one was for the white wine or champagne. There were as many glasses in front of him as there were spoons.

She also fed him, teaching the proper way to eat fish and shellfish. How to cut a steak or slurp an oyster. There was even a correct amount of butter to take. It literally made his head spin.

"Mrs Hudson, stop!" Shezza protested after she tried to push a treacle tart on him after a rather large meal.

"But you are so thin, dearie," she replied.

"It comes from living on the streets most of my life, food isn't exactly flowing in the streets."

She pursed her lips and then said, "Well, we'll just have to slowly fatten you up then."

Shezza narrowed his eyes at her, wondering what she was up to. "If you say so, Mrs Hudson."

She only tried it the once.

At dinner that night, Shezza's plate was overflowing with food, while Mycroft's held only the normal amount.

The civil servant raised one questioning eyebrow and Shezza blushed.

"Apparently Mrs Hudson told the cook that I was starving and needed to be fattened up," he explained.

"I see."

Breakfast was back to normal the next day, but Mrs Hudson continued to leave treats for him all over the house, in hopes of enticing him to eat more.

The early part of his afternoon was spent with a tutor. Where Mr Gregson would teach him philosophy, mathematics, history, politics, certain sciences that were becoming popular at the moment and just about anything the tutor could think of. Mr Gregson filled his mind to the brim and then some.

And there wasn't a subject Shezza wouldn't devour. He wanted to know it all. There was many a night that Mycroft would find the gang leader slumped over a book, having read the candle down and fallen asleep. Mycroft would take the book and set it aside, then would cover him in a blanket.

After Gregson left for the day, it was time for Shezza's favorite lesson. It was the one thing that didn't make him feel stupid or awkward and that was his violin lesson.

He threw his feelings into his music. He could put the words that he couldn't find into song. He never felt out of place with his violin tucked under his chin and the bow dancing across the strings.

He was doing so well that Mr Chater went to Mycroft a couple weeks into their lessons.

The violin instructor poked his head into Mycroft's office. "Mr Holmes?"

"Ah, Mr Chater," he said waving the man to come in. "How is your student? No troubles, I hope."

Mr Chater sat down directly across from the civil servant. "Just the opposite. He has progressed from fingering exercises to being able to play anything by ear. And this afternoon I found this." He pulled a paper from his jacket pocket that was the folded long way and handed it to Mycroft.

The civil servant unfolded the paper and his eyebrows raised up.

"I see, and have you played it?" he asked, setting down the violin composition on his desk and tapping it with his finger.

"I don't have to, Mr Holmes. I know quality when I see it," the instructor assured him. "Are you sure he's never played before?"

"As far as I am aware," Mycroft replied.

His brother, Sherlock, had been playing the violin half of his life before he had died. But as Mycroft was forced to remind himself every day, Shezza was not his brother.

"Then you have a prodigy on your hands," Mr Chater said, standing up.

"So it would seem."

After dinner, Shezza would follow Mycroft into his office and they would discuss his lessons with his other tutors. If Shezza was having trouble with a particular aspect of his learning, Mycroft would spend the time before bed coaching him. If he wasn't having trouble, Mycroft would alternate between teaching the method of loci, Sherlock's childhood, and how to deduce.

Mycroft stressed the importance of the latter, saying that if they were to find out who was causing the trouble in town, they needed him to see the details people often missed. Because most people don't realize that the things they do leave traces that those with a trained eye can see.

At first, Shezza would practice on the poor maids and footmen until he deduced that a pair of them were having an affair. After that, Mycroft took him to a different public place and pointed out someone for Shezza to deduce.

On one particular occasion he deduced that the elderly couple in the corner of the restaurant were having marital troubles. He was cheating on her with several people, men and women alike. But especially his secretary. She was hawking the jewelry he gave her and replacing the stones with fakes to help pay for the gambling debts that she incurred at the races.

"Very good, Sherlock-" Mycroft stopped. He had avoided calling the gang leader by that name so he wouldn't get attached in case this went south, but it seemed it didn't matter anymore. Shezza had become Sherlock in every possible way. "I guess, I'm going to have to get used to calling you that."

Shezza just smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Hello, my lovely readers, another chapter for you.**

**Thanks to my beta, old ping hai.**

**And just a couple notes before you get started:**

**1- A coming out party in olden times was when a young women would be presented to court in hopes of marrying her off to someone suitable. The male version is beautillion ball, where young men are presented in hopes of catching a bride.**  
><strong>2- No, I didn't get the name of John's fiancée wrong and I will be getting into what happened with him since the near arrest of the Baker Street Irregulars in the next chapter. So that will be fun. Well, to write anyway.<strong>

* * *

><p>It took Shezza only three weeks to transform himself into Sherlock Holmes. The street-wise gang leader had been obliterated and in his place was the cool and calculating member of the elite.<p>

Mycroft was astonished by the transformation. Everything about Shezza now screamed "raised affluent." Shezza took to it like a fish to water. Mycroft should have been happy it turned out so well, thrilled even. But instead he felt a gnawing sense of guilt. It was as though he was sending a lamb to the slaughter. Still, his options were limited and after all the money he spent transforming the young man, he had no choice but to go through with it. God help them both.

So he did what every good member of the elite did when they were about to do something distasteful, he threw a party. And in the week leading up to the event he taught Shezza as many dances as he could. Just one more thing to add to the list of things Shezza immediately picked up.

The party would serve two purposes; an announcement of the return of his brother and a coming out party for the young man. That way Shezza or Sherlock, as he was now, would be introduced at one time to as many of the players as possible. During that week, Sherlock Holmes became the talk of the town. Everyone was theorizing about where Mycroft had found his brother, what he would look like now, what would his manners be like?

Mycroft would chuckle at the latest theory when he went into town. But no one had connected the young man who had been seen with the civil servant at the restaurant to Sherlock Holmes. It really made Mycroft wonder about the brains of these people.

There hadn't been a party at Holmes manor in ten years, so Mycroft went all out. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres before dinner and then dancing afterwards. Of course, an hour into drinks he would announce his "brother" to the guests.

* * *

><p>John had been dragged to this ridiculous party by his father and fiancée. Both of whom abandoned him once they were through the door, so he resolutely stood in the corner ignoring everyone and clutching a drink, trying his best not to down it in one gulp.<p>

The master of the house stood up and clinked his champagne glass to get everyone's attention and John refused to pay him any mind. He was here against his will and he wasn't about to pander to the wants of an overstuffed shirt.

"Thank you all for coming to celebrate this joyous occasion with me. As most of you are aware my father, the late squire, had spent the final years of his life seeking for the murderers of his wife and as well as searching for his son, whom he firmly believed to be alive. On the eve of his death he made me promise to continue his search.

"One month ago, I was pleased to discover that he had been right, my brother had survived. Lost and destitute, most of the memories of his life before are gone, but some remain. I took him into my home and now he is ready to be brought into society.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you and society, Sherlock Holmes!"

The former gang leader walked woodenly down the steps of the grand staircase, hoping that he wouldn't trip over his own feet and make a spectacle of himself tumbling down the stairs.

All the women gasped and the men were torn between appreciative murmurs and envious groans.

A woman by John's elbow hissed, "God, he's gorgeous. I bet Mr Holmes already has a bride lined up for him. He's just too handsome to be left to his own devices for long."

John sighed. He was going to have to turn around now, his curiosity wouldn't allow him to continue to ignore the young man for long. After all, it wasn't the young man's fault that John had been dragged to his coming out party.

John looked up and his drink slipped out between nervous fingers, falling to the floor with a tinkling of shattered crystal and a dull splash of whatever remained of the champagne.

Sherlock Holmes was by and far the most gorgeous man John had ever seen. The young man's curls had been tamed and slicked back from his forehead. His face was narrow and long, with deep set pale blue eyes that seemed to shift between grey and green and he had soft, pink lips pressed in a Cupid's bow. He looked young. Younger than his eighteen years. Probably due to the fact that he was being thrust into the spotlight after years of obscurity.

He also had a look of familiarity that John couldn't quite place. John forced himself to look away before anyone caught him staring at this empyrean being. And if that person was his father, he'd be beaten for sure.

He felt a hand slip around the crook of his elbow. He turned to see his fiancée and smiled wearily.

"He is quite the pretty thing, isn't he?" she asked with a grin.

John's smile turned fake as he lied, "He's nothing to you, Miss Morstan." His new fiancée's smile turned pleased.

"Doesn't change the fact that he's gorgeous. Makes you wonder where he's been these past ten years," she said as she leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I don't know," John said as he wondered the same thing.

* * *

><p>After dinner Sherlock made the rounds, talking to everyone, chatting and being as charming as possible. Well, everyone but John. John he circled like a shark circles its prey. John, in return, had to force his attention back to Miss Morstan, where it belonged. Every time it appeared Sherlock would near, John's heart would race and his palms would sweat, but at the last second the younger man would veer off and speak to someone else, leaving the poor blond feeling both relieved and bereft.<p>

Just when John couldn't take any more, Mycroft led the younger Holmes to John's group which now included his father.

"Ah, good. All three of you together, this makes introductions easy," Mycroft said as he neared them. "Sherlock, this is Mr Watson, Master of the Society of Apothecaries. His son, John and John's fiancée, Miss Morstan." Mycroft made a show of looking around. "Is Miss Watson not here this evening? I thought she would want to be here, the event of the season."

Mr Watson coughed and John and Miss Morstan shared a glance.

"Hmm, yes," Mr Watson hedged. "Unfortunately her trip to Paris coincided with tonight's party. She sends her apologies for not being here tonight."

Sherlock's eyes darted over the older man and then with a sneer said, "Translation: you didn't want her here tonight in case she got drunk and embarrassed you at the 'most talked about event of the season'."

Mycroft fought to keep his face blank, but a small smile crept through when he met John's eye. John coughed to cover the laugh that bubbled past his lips.

"Now, see here-" Mr Watson huffed, offended.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to Miss Morstan. "Do you like to dance?"

Miss Morstan smiled prettily. "Indeed, I love it, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock turned to John, "Would you mind terribly if I borrowed your fiancée for this one dance?"

John started. "No, not at all. I am well situated, I assure you."

Sherlock flashed him a bright smile and took Miss Morstan to the dance floor. As he walked away, John couldn't help but feel that he was the person Sherlock really wanted to ask to dance.

Mycroft bowed and left the two men standing there.

* * *

><p>Mycroft watched as the former gang leader charmed everyone, and smiled. Mr Watson came to stand at his side.<p>

"I see you've got quite the performing monkey there, Mr Holmes," the man sneered.

Mycroft leaned down close, "No, Mr Watson. He's not my performing monkey, _you_ are." He straightened up and yelled to someone close by. "Mr Henderson! There you are. I've been hoping to speak to you about your cotton mill this evening."

A striking man turned around, "Mr Holmes, you have caught on the one thing I speak about with any kind of pleasure."

"I thought it might be so," Mycroft said with a smile. He turned back to Mr Watson, who looked offended that the civil servant would chose to speak with a mill owner over him. "Good evening, Harrison. Do enjoy yourself, it may be your last chance to do so." And with that he strolled off to talk to Mr Henderson about the cotton industry, leaving behind a bristling Master of the Society of Apothecaries.

But Mycroft wasn't the only one watching Sherlock with interest.

* * *

><p>Lord Milverton grabbed Janine's arm and pulled her close.<p>

"That boy is going to ruin everything. If you can't seduce the young Mr Watson, perhaps you'll do better with the young Mr Holmes," he hissed in her ear.

She nodded and moved to do so when he pulled her back to him.

"You do remember what happens if you don't succeed?"

"Yes, Lord Milverton," Janine whimpered. He shook her once and then thrust her from him, causing her to stumble away.

* * *

><p>Across the room, a dark-haired woman watched the young man with her glittering blue eyes. Her red painted nails gripped her fan tightly and then she snapped it open to hide her face.<p>

"Sherlock Holmes, hmmm…" she purred. "Let's play a game, junior."

She fanned herself once, before she snapped her fan closed. Her eyes narrowed on her target in anticipation.

"I aim to misbehave."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Hello! It's not as dramatic as I thought it would be, and kinda got away from me length-wise. So you are getting two chapters for the price of one. This one goes up tonight and the second half gets put up tomorrow. **

**Thanks to my love beta. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p>John sat in the carriage, his back stiff and his head forward, as he couldn't bear to think of what was happening to his new friends. Knowing his father, they were probably all being arrested. It didn't matter if none of them were involved with his escape. They helped him, therefore they must be punished. He shuddered to think what would happen now that the Spiders held the territory.<p>

He wanted to break down and cry, to mourn the loss of his new-found happiness, but he couldn't let his father see that he had won.

The door next to him was wrenched open and John turned, startled. There, with a grim expression and snarling sneer, was his father.

"Move over," Mr Watson commanded, and John hastened to obey. He scooted as far over as he could, trying to put as much distance between him and his father. It did very little good. His father was large man and he filled nearly the entire seat on his own. John wished he could move to the other chair in the carriage, but he knew that would only further anger his father.

"If I thought for one second that you had the brains to come up with this running away business on your own, I'd horsewhip you to within an inch of your life," Mr Watson growled and then tapped the ceiling to signal the driver to go.

"And when I find out who helped you, I swear to god…" he trailed off, but the implication was clear. "It can't be any of the servants, they are more brainless than you are. So, I've been talking to the guests to find out which one of them it was. Not that I told them you'd gone."

_Of course not_, John thought bitterly.

"I've been telling them that you've been ill and seeing which ones twitch, but so far none of them have. Though that could just mean they're a better liar than you are, which isn't saying much."

Mr Watson took out his pipe and began filling it. And then he lit the thing, clogging the air with its vile smoke.

"I was ready to send out bloodhounds to look for you, when I got word from that Moriarty fellow where you were. Interesting chap; if he wasn't Irish, I'd hire him."

_Thank god for British and Scottish pride_, John thought.

But his father went on, heedless of his son's thoughts. "Can you imagine the scandal if I _hadn't_ found you. I would have been the laughingstock of London!" Mr Watson roared. John was afraid he would get hit then and there, but the blow never came.

"Your sister is home from whatever bender she'd been on. I worry one day that she'll come home, fat with some artist or musician's child."

John rolled his eyes. She would have to be screwing men to get pregnant, but that wasn't what Harriet liked.

It was ironic or maybe just cosmic payback that the biggest bigot in London, if not all of England had two very gay children.

"Oh, and you were wrong about Miss Sawyer, by the way," Mr Watson sneered. "She has been courted and accepted the marriage proposal of a Mr Thornton. A mill owner from up north. All in the space of the five days you've been gone."

That made John sit up. Not the part about Miss Sawyer, she could hang for all he cared, no. It was the fact that his father had thought he'd left the day of the party. John wasn't sure why that interested him, but it made him feel good that he had fooled his father that well.

"And apparently also in the time you've been gone, Madame Shan found a man for her niece. Some rich oil baron in America. He didn't have your scruples." John could tell that his father thought that having morals or scruples of any kind was a sign of weakness.

"So you are left with three brides to choose from. Sarina Donovan, Mary Morstan, and Janine Hawkins. And you will choose one," Mr Watson growled, grabbing John's arm tightly. "No more waffling and this namby-pamby nonsense, do I make myself clear?"

John nodded.

"Say it!" Mr Watson snarled, shaking John until his teeth rattled.

"Yes, sir," John muttered.

"Good," he said and threw John against the side of the carriage.

* * *

><p>That night he lay in his room sobbing. His father had dogged his steps all day, making sure that he didn't run off again, and he was finally alone. He sobbed over the new bruises he had, the pain in his ankle which he felt more keenly here than he had ever done on Baker Street, and for loss of the friends he'd made in the street gang.<p>

He was still sobbing when Stamford came in to lay out clothes for him to change into for bed.

"Oh, Master John!" Stamford cried and came to sit on bed next to him. "I'm sorry it didn't work out. Maybe your wife will let you join the army. You won't be under your father's thumb then."

John laughed bitterly. "I heard him tell his lawyer that I'm to only get a small allowance when I marry and he will take her dowry and fold it into his fortune. We won't see a single penny of it."

"Can he do that?"

"This is my father, he can do whatever the hell he pleases. So, here I am, stuck in a life I never wanted."

"Well, at least you are away from those ruffians," Stamford said as he helped John out of his clothes.

"Those _ruffians_ were the only people who liked me for who I was and not just because I am the only son of Mr Harrison Watson, head of the Society of the Apothecaries. I was judged on my own merit and they liked me. They honestly liked me. God, I want to go back. I was doing good there." John pulled on his night clothes and flopped on the bed.

Stamford watched him a moment before he said, "So, what's his name?"

"Shezza," John said without thinking, and then blushed. "Pretend you didn't hear that."

"So, who's Shezza then?" Stamford asked, wagging his eyebrows suggestively.

John's blush deepened. "He's the leader of the gang I stayed with."

"Ooh, so an older guy," Stamford teased as he pulled the covers out from under John. John yelped and tossed a pillow at his valet, who deftly caught it and began fluffing it up.

"I'll have you know he's only eighteen!" John huffed as Stamford bullied the young man into his bed and under the covers.

"So, gorgeous then?" the valet asked with a wink.

"God, I can't believe I'm telling you this, but yes, you fiend. He's absolutely gorgeous and brilliant and, and, amazing!"

"That's good, John. Too bad he isn't some rich guy with a lot of power. That way you could get married and tell your father to hang!"

John sighed. If only.

* * *

><p>His father had set up a series of outings with each prospect, during which John would be their escort. The first of these was with Sally Donovan. There was a large picnic to be held by a Mr Anderson and his wife. Mr Anderson was an associate of Mr Thornton and ran one of the other mills up north. He was in town trying to drum up interest to save his failing business.<p>

Things started off well, Miss Donovan liked to chatter. She especially liked talking about the wide, open spaces of America and how nice it was that people who came from practically nothing could make a name for themselves. John thought it sounded lovely.

Harriet was even behaving herself. Well, that was probably because of the lack of hard liquor served at a picnic. As long as he kept an eye on her, she wouldn't get tipsy. Their father was out of town on business. Which, John reflected, was why Harriet was here at all. Father's little spy.

The problem arose when Mr Anderson took an interest in John's pretty companion. His eyes raked over her frame, and he sauntered over to them.

"Miss Donovan," he said, leering at her breasts. "It is a pleasure to meet you." He reached out for her hand and kissed it. She blushed and covered her face. He didn't bother greeting John at all.

"Mr Anderson," John said, trying to get the attention off his charge. Mr Anderson's eyes flicked briefly over to John before they settled back on to Miss Donovan.

"I don't see your esteemed parents here today," Mr Anderson said, "I hope they are well."

"I'm here as her escort," John said and again was ignored.

"They are quite well, Mr Anderson, they just aren't picnic people."

"And they let you come in their stead. How wonderful for us all. Do you like strawberries?" he asked, holding out his arm for her to take. She took it without a backward glance at John.

"I love strawberries!"

"Miss Donovan!" John cried, but his objection fell on deaf ears.

He watched after them until they were out of sight. He was completely floored that Mr Anderson would take a lady away from her escort, and that she would allow it! He hastily looked around for Mrs Anderson, hoping to at least steer her away from her husband's wandering eye.

But it appeared that Mrs Anderson was too busy doing some wandering of her own. With his sister. Now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. He should go remove his sister from flirting with the lady of the house, but if he did that same lady might find out her husband's own philandering. Which would bring up scenes unpleasant for everyone. He didn't know what to do, or who to turn to. He was friendless and alone.

He thought about Shezza. Shezza would know what to do, or he would make John laugh. Oh, how he ached to see his friend again.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: See? I told you, you'd get another chapter today. This ends what happened to John while Shezza was learning to be Sherlock Holmes. And from this point the boys will be alternating POVs in the chapters.**

**Thanks to my wonderful beta, who is the best in the world.**

* * *

><p>Tea with Miss Morstan was delightful. She even brought a friend with her, Miss Louise Mortimer. Harriet was also in attendance, acting again as their father's spy.<p>

"It was nice of you to accompany Miss Morstan, Miss Mortimer. Have you come to London seeking your fortune as well?" John asked, as his maid poured their tea.

The other young lady was perhaps a little older than John. She had dark hair and eyes, and she smiled at John.

"Miss Mortimer is the first woman to be admitted to the Society of Apothecaries," Mary told them proudly.

Miss Mortimer blushed. "She's correct. It's very exciting. I am rather enjoying my studies."

John had heard of her, of course. His father had been livid. But as Miss Mortimer had pointed out, there was nothing on the books that prohibited her from studying there. So they were forced to allow it. The general consensus had been that she would wash out before the first semester was up. She was on her second year and doing better than most of her male peers.

John coughed discretely into his napkin. "I know your name very well, Miss Mortimer. I know it as well I know my own, having heard it so frequently these past couple of years."

Harriet scoffed. "What he's trying to say is our father yells about you, loudly and at length."

"Harriet!" John hissed, but Harriet just simpered.

"My apologies, Miss Mortimer," John said. "I hear you are doing very well in your classes. Are you going into any kind of speciality?"

"Surgery. I did some of it while I was working as a nurse in one of the free clinics and rather enjoyed it. And you? What is the son of the great Harrison Watson going into?"

"Surgery as well. But I'm dabbling in everything, it's all just so fascinating." He paused a moment and then turned to Miss Morstan. "Oh dear me! I have neglected you. I'm so sorry. I really do enjoy being a doctor. I believe you said that your father was in the army. What did he do?"

"Boring things, I have no doubt. But anything is better than listening to the pair of them droning on about doctor-y gibberish," Harriet said snidely.

"Oh no, Miss Watson. It wasn't boring at all! He was stationed in India and he saw elephants and strange birds and once he even found a tiger in his tent!"

"A tiger!" Harriet was impressed. "What did he do?"

She told them the story. And then they had her tell them another and another. Wild stories, stories about the animals, about the people, and the culture. Everyone was leaning forward as this once-shy girl became the center of attention. She lit up and glowed from their interest not only in her stories, but in her as well.

Mary also talked of her youth, of going from relative to relative, never really finding her place and how much she was loving London. Like she finally belonged somewhere.

John felt drawn to her. He would never fancy her, but when it was time for the ladies to leave, he wanted her to stay.

* * *

><p>The last and final outing was with Miss Hawkins and her guardian, Lord Milverton. They, along with John's sister and father, were to go see an opera in Lord Milverton's private box. Mr Watson was more thrilled to be seen in the private box than he was to actually go to the opera. John fully expected his father to be asleep by the third act. Harriet wanted to show off the new dress their father had bought her. No doubt as payment for her spying. It had lace and bows everywhere and John thought it was hideous. Miss Hawkins's dress in comparison was simpler, but cut a little more daring. John couldn't help but wonder if maybe the Lord was having his young ward on the sly.<p>

Once they reached the box, the two older men sat at the ends, with Harriet between her father and John, and Miss Hawkins between John and her guardian. John shifted uncomfortably. His seat in the middle made him feel like he was on display somehow. He tried to shake off the feeling as he looked at the playbill.

The opera was called _Genoveva_ and was about a lord who entrusts his wife with his young servant, but when the lady spurs the advances of the young servant, he sets up a plot to get her accused of adultery. It seemed like it would be good and he leaned forward attentively when the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.

He was so engrossed in the story that he didn't notice the touches at first. They were light and innocent. But as Golo, the servant, was coming up with the plot, the touches became more incessant.

He looked to his left and Miss Hawkins winked at him. He turned his attention back to the story unfolding in front of him. Miss Hawkins touches started on the arm but by the time the intermission started she had progressed to his leg.

John was grateful for the fifteen minutes away from her roaming hand. If they hadn't been in public he would have jumped out of his seat and run. But when it came, the intermission was a relief. And when he tried to get Harriet to swap seats with him, she told him that he was there to escort Miss Hawkins, and he couldn't do that if he wasn't sitting next to her.

John groaned and prepared himself for another long couple of acts.

Again she started out light. Brushes against his hand, his arm. She was soon trailing her hand up and down his leg. And as the two guards were sent to kill poor Genoveva, her hand reached the apex of his leg and she dipped her fingers between his thighs. He quickly crossed his legs so that she would be forced to withdraw.

She merely smirked and placed her hand on his rear. John tried so hard not to squeal and jump away. Finally the lord restored his lady's honor and all was well. John forced himself not to run away from Miss Hawkins and offer her his arm instead.

The second he got home he had Stamford draw him a bath and he spent twenty minutes trying to wash away the dirty feeling her touch left behind. After he had gotten out and ready for bed, he supposed that had Miss Hawkins been his cup of tea, he might have jumped her after the opera, but as she wasn't even close, not even in the same hemisphere, her touch left him feeling disgusted instead.

* * *

><p>The next morning it was apparent that neither his father nor his sister had noticed anything amiss the night before, and they were calmly having breakfast when John came down. Mr Watson was going through the morning's post.<p>

Without looking up, Mr Watson growled, "Have you made your decision, Johnny?"

As the only decision Mr Watson cared about was who John would marry, he said, "Yes, sir."

"Well, who is it, man?" his father demanded.

"Miss Morstan, sir," John replied. If he was going to be forced into a marriage he didn't want, it might as well be someone he could actually tolerate for longer than five seconds.

"Hrumph! Good enough," his father muttered. "What's this then?" he asked, holding up a particularly ornate envelope.

"Ooh," Harriet said, leaning close. "So fancy."

John watched as his father opened the note to reveal an invitation. Mr Watson began muttering to himself as he read the elaborate handwritten script.

He frowned. "Looks like you get that Paris trip after all, Harry." He tossed the invitation John's direction.

John picked it up as Harriet clapped for joy. "Ooh, is it a party in Paris then?" she asked.

"No."

She blinked, confused.

"I didn't know Mr Holmes had any family," John said before Harriet could kick up a fuss. "Much less a brother who had been missing."

"I didn't either. But according to that," Mr Watson said jabbing at the paper in John's hand, "not only has one been found, he's having a coming out party."

"God, this is going to be the most talked about event of the season," John murmured. "How the hell did we get invited?"

"What do you mean, how did we get invited? I am the head of the Society of the Apothecaries! Of course I'd be invited."

John just shook his head. His father and Mr Holmes didn't run in the same circles. To have his father invited was not only odd, but unheard of as well.

Harriet coughed and both men turned to her. She was standing with her arms crossed and an angry twist to her full lips.

"If there is this huge party that _everyone_ is going to be talking about, then why am I going to Paris?"

"Because I will not have you make a fool out of me the way you did at the Governor's Ball!" Mr Watson bellowed.

John winced. Harriet had gotten so drunk that she managed to convince the governor's daughters to strip to their shifts and dance in the water like sea nymphs. John had been the one who had found them, hands all over each other. It had taken Mr Watson a very long time to make it up to the governor. It was also the first time John realized his sister was a lesbian. How his father didn't see it, he had no idea.

Harriet stomped her foot. "So, what? Paris is my consolation prize?"

"Yes! And you will go or so help me!" Mr Watson stood up and raised his hand. Harriet cowered back in fear.

"Yes, father," she whimpered.

John had never seen their father raise a hand to his sister before and it truly frightened him.

Mr Watson rounded on his son. "And you will take Miss Morstan to this thing. As your fiancée, do you hear me? Or you'll get more than my hand, I'll use my crop!"

John nodded glumly. He had been looking forward to party only moments ago, and now he looked on it with dread.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: There were a couple things I cribbed from other places. Harriet's misdeed that is preventing her from going to Sherlock's coming out party is inspired by that scene in "What a Girl Wants" where Daphne goes to the coming out party and it is a disaster. And the Janine scene at the opera comes from one of my favorite episodes of the old British comedy "Are You Being Served?" **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Eek! Has it really been nearly two weeks weeks since I updated? I'm sorry, so sorry. But in my defense, I was seriously ill. I had a really nasty cold that left me dizzy and weak.**

**Thanks to my beta, old ping hai. She is absolutely lovely.**

**Also, I hate doing this, but dear readers I need some help. My poor pathetic Macbook is on it's last legs, and I need to replace it before it truly dies and I lose all my stories. Which would be tragic. ;) So, I started a gofundme to raise the funds to get a new laptop. Even if you can't contribute, could you please spread the word around? www. gofundme kmb9gw (just remove the spaces)**

**Thanks!**

* * *

><p>Mycroft tapped the arm of his chair nervously as he waited for Shezza to join him.<p>

The party had been a success and he wanted to hear about what the former gang leader had thought of the attendees.

He didn't have to wait long before the young man let himself into the politician's office and then promptly threw himself into a nearby chair. Shezza grinned at him.

"I really must thank you for this. This has got to have been the most fun I've had in a long time."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself. Your evisceration of Mr Watson was particularly delightful. Speaking of whom, what did you think of him?"

"An easy read. He is, as you said, a bully. But one that is clearly losing control. He's afraid of something. Which makes him the least likely candidate for the source of your troubles. Also, that fear means that he won't do anything that might drive Miss Morstan running for the hills, so he'll dial back on the physical violence until after the wedding."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, I got the same impression. And I think we have plenty of time; no date has been set for wedding, making it a safe bet that it will be some time in the far future."

"Indeed," Shezza agreed. "The fiancée was far more interesting. She is smitten with John and may be fast on falling in love with him. But I believe she also is aware of his proclivity toward his own sex."

"Fascinating. Do you think that would cause her to be dangerous?"

"Very. To anyone who wants John Watson; to the rest of the nation, not so much. She may look like a dainty flower, but her core is solid steel."

Mycroft nodded. "Were there any standouts among the guests that you think bear watching?"

"There were three that really struck me that require looking into further. I have already sent a message to the Irregulars to go digging into their past."

Mycroft was impressed. He didn't expect the younger man to take the initiative like that. He waved his hand for Shezza to continue.

"The first was Miss Irene Adler. I couldn't get a read on her at all. I was almost afraid I had lost the ability for a moment when she came up a big question mark. I picked a person at random and was relieved to know that I hadn't," Shezza muttered.

"Ah yes," Mycroft said. "She is an American opera diva trying to make it in London before trying her hand in Paris. She has ruffled quite a few feathers in town. Caused a fair amount of scandals, as well."

"But you will watch her, yes? She is too slippery an eel."

"Of course," the politician assured him.

"The next one is Sebastian Wilkes. He was talking to all the wrong people," Shezza said, shifting in his seat.

"What do you mean?"

"As the heir to one of the largest banking empires, you would expect him to hang around other rich people. Those who have made their money through investments and speculations, but instead he was chatting up people who, while they have substantial bank accounts, are more known for their influence than for their monetary value. People like Lady Westwood, Lord Smallwood and his wife, the Cartwrights. He was even seen chatting up Mr Watson at one point during the evening."

"You're right. That is unusual. Do you think he's the one?"

Shezza shrugged. "I think he bears a second look. He may be nothing more than a simple sycophant, but he may also be linked to the person causing the trouble."

"Agreed. Who is the last one?"

"Langdale Pike. He had been watching me the whole night, and not like others had. While their interest was written plainly – greed, lust, control – his wasn't any one of those things. It sent a chill up my spine whenever I felt his eyes on me." Shezza shivered. He did not have fond memories of that gaze.

Mycroft chuckled. "He's one of ours, actually. I will have to let him know that he needs to brush up on his subtlety."

Shezza's eyes went wide. "He's a spy?"

"He doesn't seem the type, does he? That's what makes him so good. He looks so lazy and indolent, but he is a panther waiting to strike."

Shezza huffed. "I suppose so." He was upset that he didn't peg Langdale Pike as a spy.

"Were those the only ones you spotted?" Mycroft asked with a smile.

"This time round. Your master manipulator might have not have been there or might have stayed out sight. After all, if this was easy, you would have figured it out months ago."

Mycroft blushed.

"Thank you."

* * *

><p>John hated having to parade Miss Morstan around like some prized filly. He liked her well enough, but he needed a break. So, he was grateful when the men split up from the women after a particularly stressful dinner party at one of his father's friends.<p>

He moved away from the older gentlemen and scanned the room, looking for a place he could hide from his father and just relax. He found one such spot but it was currently occupied. John wasn't sure if he was thrilled or upset to see that it had been filled by Sherlock Holmes.

Against his will, John found himself drawn to the small nook to which the younger Holmes had absconded. Sherlock looked up and smiled.

"Mr Watson," he purred. "Come to join me in hiding from well-meaning busybodies?"

John gulped. "Mr Holmes," he stuttered.

Sherlock smirked.

John looked over at his father and then back at the younger man, "Something like that. You don't mind if I share in your hiding spot, then?"

"Not at all. You are more than welcome to my nook."

"Would that make me the cranny?" Sherlock chuckled as John squeezed in next to him.

"This must be a nightmare for you," John muttered into the silence. "All this sudden attention after years of living in obscurity, to be thrust into the limelight."

Sherlock smiled warmly down at the blond. "It is different from the life I'm used to, but I believe it is worth it."

John's heart caught in his throat and he swallowed thickly. He blushed darkly. He didn't even know why he was blushing. There was nothing that indicated that he was what Mr Holmes thought was worth it.

But before he could ask, it was announced that it was time to join the ladies for card games.

John and Sherlock ended up at different tables, but John's seat afforded him a good view of Sherlock's profile.

His card partner and fiancée, Miss Morstan, would laugh every time he got caught out staring when it was supposed to be his turn.

He went home feeling distinctly out of sorts. He was worried that he was as fickle as a woman, switching his affections from Shezza to Sherlock in such a short time.

Stamford chuckled as John sighed like some swooning maiden in a Byronic tale.

"So which pretty face has turned your mind tonight, Master John?" he asked as he drew John's bath.

John shook his head. "You just want a saucy tale to tell the maids."

Stamford laughed. "If I wanted a saucy tale, I'd pump Clara, your sister's lady, for stories."

John raised an eyebrow. "I can only imagine."

"So, come on then. Who's got your eye?" Stamford pressed, as he divested John of his jacket and waistcoat.

"Sherlock Holmes," John said, finally giving in. It wasn't as though he could talk about these things to anyone else.

"I hear he's quite the looker," Stamford said, as he continued to strip his master.

"Gorgeous. Brilliant. Legs that go for miles."

"Sounds you have a type."

"A 'type'? What do you mean?"

"I mean it sounds like you have a preference in the men you like."

"Oh." John looked up at his valet shyly, "You mean I'm not fickle?"

Stamford laughed. "Of course not. But at least this one's rich, eh?" Stamford winked and left John to his bath.

* * *

><p>John stumbled through the front door and leaned heavily against the door frame, exhausted. His classes at the Society of the Apothecaries were getting more and more difficult and it was leaving him drained. He was glad he only had a year left.<p>

He quickly straightened up when he saw the housekeeper hurrying toward him.

"John, sir!" she called out. "You've had a visitor while you were out." She held out the small silver dish she had with her. In its center was a calling card.

John picked it up and turned it over. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He turned on his heel and quickly dashed up to his room, calling for his valet. The housekeeper smirked and walked off, feeling pleased with herself.

Stamford helped him into his favorite suit with his best top hat and gloves. He fiddled with his cravat as Stamford called a hansom cab. When the valet caught him at it, he slapped his wrist.

"Stop that!" Stamford admonished.

John jumped into the cab and told the cabbie the directions. His heart was racing as the cab weaved through London streets, the rattle of the cobblestone clattering beneath the wheels and hooves of the horse.

As he pulled up to the gated manor, he feared that he may have been a tad rash rushing over here. After all, his caller might still be out visiting. John looked up at the nameplate "Undershaw" with slight apprehension. But there was nothing for it. Surely the servants had seen him pull up and unless he wanted to be the talk of the town for coming to the house without even approaching the door, he'd best exit the cab.

He sighed and stepped out. He told the cab to wait for him and rang the bell. Upon being told his caller was in residence, he paid the cab, then turned to follow the maid through the gorgeous manor.

He was shown to the library and twisted his gloves in his hands nervously as the maid announced him to his host.

"Mr Watson!" Sherlock cried, jumping to his feet. "I wasn't expecting you until tomorrow at the earliest."

John just smiled.


End file.
